Each calf bore a tattoo. On her right, a slender green fern; on her left, a folk-art fox. Rarely admiring of body ink, I found myself drawn to the images evoking the natural world permanently stained on her skin. She walked ahead in a white skirt, white tank top, leading me down a path into the forest. Leaf trees gave way to evergreens, which eventually thinned out, exposing wider clearings strewn with moss-covered stones. Just that gentle lift in elevation was enough to alter ecosystems. At the top, she pointed to the sea. Islands. Thousands of them. Before me sprawled the Naantali Archipelago. And the two of us stood on a speck inside of it, new acquaintances feeling like old friends, a degree of familiarity achieved after a few hours. But that’s what happens, apparently, when you visit KuppariHanna, the Finnish folk healer.

“I’ve had clients come from all over the world” she explained as she picked me up in her red Skoda. I was staying in a dated hotel filled with aging Europeans seeking a spa retreat. The property wasn’t what I had in mind when searching for a Finnish sauna experience, so I took to the internet and found on the Naantali tourism website a listing for an authentic "FinRelax" experience which included forest bathing, time in a sauna, and the option for wet cupping, massage or both. I’d tried dry cupping in Chinatown in New York, my home base, so I was curious about the wet version, though I didn’t bother reading about it in advance. I figured I’d find out when I got there.

View of the Naantali Archipelago.Lauren Mowery

Hanna’s clients find her much the way I did: in search of an intimate experience that links the Finnish landscape with traditional treatments. After all, Finns were known for practically giving birth in saunas and spending their weekends in cabins to commune with trees.

She showed me around her little wooded enclave, pointing out the sauna boat her husband and dad built. Literally, a boat with a motor to support a wood-fired sauna they took sailing. “That’s maybe a bit overboard, even for Finns” she said, though it merely testified to the import of sweat culture in Finnish life.

We entered her studio and she told me to make myself at home. I removed my shoes and sunk in to her couch. She brewed me a cup of coffee then set about preparing and stoking the wood-burning fireplace. She lit candles, then took a seat for a chat.

“A few weeks ago, I had some Russians here. They spent all day going in and out of the sauna, meanwhile drinking vodka. I was afraid they’d have heart attacks” she laughed, clearly relieved she didn’t have to manage a health crisis in her home.

“They were staying at the same hotel you’re at, and also felt it lacked character. They wanted a sauna in nature, not a sanitarium. ” I nodded my head in agreement, though I would forego the vodka and beer, the latter which she said she always made available to clients.

She asked if I’d like to make my whisk. I said sure, so we walked outside to cut branches of birch. Using a little hand knife wrapped in leather, she made angled cuts, collecting a thick bouquet. “When you slap yourself with this, it opens the blood vessels and gives off a soapy smell.” Inside, she wrapped the leaves with twine. “I think your sauna is ready.”

She pointed me towards the changing area. “it’s better if you just undress, then I can whisk your back.” Not especially shy nor wiling to compromise the experience for modesty, I took it all off. She unrolled a towel on the top bench of the wood-paneled room and I laid down. She began smacking my back with gentle vigor. “Okay, your turn. I’ll be outside drinking coffee. Take as long as you like.” She shut the door and disappeared. I dipped the leaves in water, shook droplets over the coals to trigger the heat, then smacked my legs, chest and back a few more times. I opened the rectangular window to draw a breath of cool ocean air. How odd, I thought, to be sitting naked in this stranger’s sauna, alone, and yet at ease.

After twenty minutes, I stepped out and grabbed a towel. She came into the room and pointed to a table covered in plastic. “Now, if you are willing, we’ll do the wet cupping.”

Preparing the birch whisk.Lauren Mowery

I complied, not really sure what I’d be protesting if I didn't. She lathered my backside with soap, washing free the leaves, dirt, and invisible bacteria. On a side table, she began unwrapping sterilized packages, pulling out mini bell jars topped in pink rubber bulbs. Then she took a clean needle and warned she would start pricking my back. A hundred little acupuncture stabs from my neck, shoulders, down to my waist. She called it scratching. The purpose? To make me bleed by way of suction. Wet cupping wasn’t washing of my skin; it was controlled localized medicinal bleeding.

For a moment, concern flashed through my brain. Would there be bruising? Would I look like I fell off a cliff into thorny bushes? Would these cuts encourage infection? I had to be in Africa in a few weeks; I couldn’t have my backside oozing. But something implicit in her nature (and being one of a few licensed in Finland to perform the procedure) caused me to let go – and let her do it.

So why would one would do this? Apparently, there are several reasons, though none of them scientifically supported. Primarily, it's touted as stimulating lymphatic and blood circulation for pain relief ranging from arthritis to muscle stiffness in the neck and shoulders. I certainly had tightness from all the cramped airplane travel. To that end, she suggested doing a few more cups than we originally discussed; I thought: what the hell. I should go all in if I wanted to experience the benefits.

After she applied a dozen or so cups, I asked her to take a photo. She turned the phone screen towards me. Inside each cup was a small pool of red liquid. She periodically pulled them off, wiped me down, then reapplied each cup, creating suction with heat from a match. Eventually, she said, the bleeding would stop on its own and that’s how she'd know my body was done detoxifying.

Rinsing me down once again, she gave me a towel and left so I could dress. She was right -- there was no active bleeding. In fact, I hardly noticed I’d been stabbed and blood-let but for a little itching and tingling that dissipated a day later. (I did, however, apply Neosporin all over my cuts at the hotel. Just in case.)

We went outside for one last walk through the woods. Then my driver arrived. She gave me a hug, told me I’d sleep well that night, that she’d be thinking of me.

I wouldn’t say I dozed deeply that evening, though I blame the jet lag for that.

I did feel a pervasive sense of well-being. A mental calm wrapped in fuzzy warmth; I felt relaxed and looked after, despite the loneliness of travel. Maybe the experience was a reminder that people, at their best, are meant to connect with one another. It's the easiest and most elemental healing therapy of all, that somehow manages to elude us.

When she's not in a vineyard or the ocean, Lauren Mowery covers drinks, food & adventure/luxury travel. Follow her around the world onInstagramandTwitter.